


Holy Waterboarding

by girlinstory



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Torture, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlinstory/pseuds/girlinstory
Summary: Storming Heaven took another twelve hours, in part because Aziraphale did not have his flaming sword (Death made an offer, but Aziraphale was lousy at chess), and in part, because he didn't so much storm Heaven as sneak in disguised as a former Jezebel.





	Holy Waterboarding

They thought it was over after the swap. Heaven was no longer interfering with Aziraphale's affairs, and Hell was no longer interfering in Crowley's. Aziraphale never thought Heaven would go after Crowley, because Crowley was _very much_ Azirapahale's affair.

They did. 

Time worked differently in Heaven. It was synchronic rather than diachronic, so Einstein's theory of relativity was still right, it was just a lot more relative. Which meant was that Crowley was in Heaven long enough for his hair to grow back to Renaissance lengths before Aziraphale found him, which only took two days on Earth. Before the Armaggedidn't, Crowley would occasionally go missing for half a century or so without serious concern. His absence was felt, certainly, but not entirely. Call it divine knowledge, Aziraphale could always sense Crowley's presence- his love. Crowley had it in spades, despite all that he had been through.

It only took a few moments upon waking from a rare sleep to realize that something was _wrong_ , Crowley was _gone_ , and Aziraphale was wishing for his flaming sword. 

Storming Heaven took another twelve hours, in part because Aziraphale did not have his flaming sword (Death made an offer, but Aziraphale was lousy at chess), and in part, because he didn't so much storm Heaven as sneak in disguised as a former Jezebel. 

Madame- _Mrs._ Tracy was most accommodating. It turned out she had developed something of a maternal fondness for the pair, despite the fact that they were several thousand years her senior. Actually, it turned out that Shadwell, Newton, Anathema, and the Them had all developed a bit of fondness for Crowley. Aziraphale could hardly blame them, and he was grateful for the assistance. He couldn't allow any of them to accompany him to such a dangerous place as Heaven of course, but Anathema offered her medical knowledge, if necessary. Aziraphale wouldn't be able to perform any miracles if they were hiding from Heaven, and he had no idea whether Crowley would be injured. He refused to consider the alternative possibility. In fact, he tried so hard _not to think_ about how much holy water there was in Heaven, that of course he thought about it profusely, and ended up nearly having to use the restroom for the first time in six thousand years. 

Crowley was injured. 

Aziraphale had heard of Heaven's cells during the First War, but he had never visited them himself. He had listened to Gabriel's assurances of fair treatment and tactical advantage, and he had done what he had always done: He had _believed_. 

He had been lied to. 

For Heaven's prisoners of war, the ones that weren't executed on sight, they were subject to treatment that was hardly fair. Aziraphale mentally reverse engineered Crowley's injuries. Burned throat, from waterboarding with heavily diluted holy water. Angels didn't have to remove fingernails when they had feather to work with (although they also removed Crowley's fingernails.) His wings were a wreck, barely more than feathered than chicken wings, and nearly as equally fried. The Celestial Harmonies playing in his cell when Aziraphale found him were the Heavenly equivalent of the CIA's music torture. The ground to which he had been chained was consecrated, and Aziraphale finally, _belatedly_ , realized how much pain Crowley would have been in during their swap. 

He lifted his friend's skeletal form with ease, and carried him to the War Room. Touching Tadfield on the globe got him close enough, and Newton gave them a ride in the newly repaired Dick Turpin the rest of the way to Anathema's cottage. 

Aziraphale tucked Crowley into her rather charming cast-iron, art-Nouveau bed, and under a rather less charming cabbage rose bedspread. The witch got to work, using both Aspirin and Aloe Vera in her remedies. According to Anathema, "Folk remedies were maligned but legitimate treatments from female practitioners after the 13th century, when they were excluded from the patriarchal medical field due to rampant sexism, but they were also no replacement for modern medicine." That led to a rant on anti-vaxxers, with assistance from Adam, which lasted almost as long as it took for Crowley to wake up (another two days). They occasionally paused for bathroom breaks and breaths. Aziraphale needed neither, so he was there when Crowley awoke. 

Crowley pulled back with a start, broken wings hitting the headboard as he tried to crawl away. Aziraphale let go of Crowley's hand to hold up his own, but the demon had calmed before he could say a word. 

"S'you, angel," the demon slurred, settling back into the pillows. "Knew it was you. They tried to fool me, but I could tell." The last words were almost a murmur, as Crowley fell back into sleep of unconsciousness. "Couldn't feel your love."

Aziraphale reeled from the confession that his feelings weren't a secret. It hurt, of course. He had always held out at least a _slight_ hope for reciprocation, even as he had kept his distance from the demon, but that was hardly the priority. 

He tucked the bedspread up around Crowley's tattered wings, brushed a few strands of copper colored hair back from his furrowed brow, and put on Mozart until it unfurrowed. 

The next time Crowley awoke, he was much more coherent. 

"How long's it been?" he asked, once he was sat up in bed with a few more Aspirin and a double water (he had asked for a double whiskey, but his throat was still healing). Crowley's wings were tucked out of sight, and had been ever since he had laid eyes them. 

"You've been asleep for nearly six days," Aziraphale said, voice full of false cheer, even though he knew what Crowley meant was-

"How long was I gone?"

A golden curl fell into Aziraphale's eyes as he hung his head. 

"Two days." 

"Two _days_?" Crowley looked shocked, and Aziraphale prepared himself for the justified recriminations to come. "You stormed Heaven in two days?"

"Well, I didn't so much _storm_..." started Aziraphale, but Crowley huffed a laugh. 

"Glad you're on my side, angel."

"Oh." This time Aziraphale hid his face because he could feel it go pink as the pillows. "Well... me too."

Crowley finished his water, wincing when it hit his throat, even if it was the secular kind. Aziraphale refilled his glass. 

"Don't worry, my dear. You're safe here. Anathema has put up protective spells around the house, in addition to a rather genius perimeter defense system involving electricity."

"S'long as they don't let Newt anywhere near it," said Crowley. He was still slurring, but it was back to his usual amount. "What about you?"

Aziraphale blinked in confusion. "Well, I must admit I did get rather too close, and it made my hair- well, Anathema assured me that means it's working."

"No." Crowley's lips thinned into something that was almost a smile. "What if they come after you now?"

"I'd like to see them try."

"S'not safe. You were right all along. You shouldn't be anywhere near me. You-"

Aziraphale held up his hands again. "My dear. Whatever are you talking about?"

"S'not _worth_ it."

"Oh." Of course. Aziraphale had been so _selfish_ . Crowley had been hurt, _horribly_ hurt, because Aziraphale was pandering to his own unrequited love. "I'll- As soon as you're healed up, I'll leave you be." 

Crowley closed his eyes. He had been naked when Aziraphale found him, but it was the absence of his sunglasses that cut both of them the deepest. He tended to keep his eyes covered around company.

Aziraphale didn't normally count as company.

"Good," Crowley said without opening his eyes. "You'll be safer that way."

"I'll be-" Aziraphale blinked in confusion. "What do you..."

"What is it, angel?"

"You said... You said that you can sense my... love."

Crowley nodded, looking a bit embarrassed. It was an angelic trait to sense love, and he usually wouldn't cop to those, even though he went around making miracles willy nilly. 

"Who do you think that love is for?" Aziraphale asked delicately.

"Well... it's for everyone, innit?" Crowley sounded less sure of himself than Aziraphale had ever heard him (which was still about 70% sure of himself). "It's an angel thing."

"But you didn't sense it from Gabriel or Michael."

Without opening his eyes, Crowley scoffed. "Those wankers? They're more oversized geese than anything. Have you ever met a goose, angel? Arseholes, the lot of them. Well, except Canadian Geese, but that's just because they're Canadian, and even they-"

"It's for you."

Crowley opened his eyes. They were wider than Aziraphale had ever seen, brilliant gold with the slit-like pupils dilated till they were almost round. 

"What?"

"My love. It's for you."

"It- _What_?"

Aziraphale glared at him. "I'm not saying it again."

"But you- you're an angel."

"Not an aardvark?" he asked lightly. 

"Oh, piss off." Crowley said automatically. Then, "Wait, no, don't. You... Why didn't you- Why didn't you _say_ anything? Can't you feel... my love?"

"Oh," said Aziraphale. Then, " _Oh_. I thought it was for everyone."

"I'm a demon," Crowley reminded him, "who has flirted with you, nonstop, for the past six hundred years."

"Well, I didn't want to _presume_."

Crowley laughed. It sounded as though it must have hurt his throat, but he didn't seem to care. He reached out a bony, nail-less hand, and Aziraphale took hold of it. He held it as though it was the most valuable of prophetic first editions. 

"When did you know?" asked Crowley.

"1941. You?"

"3997 BC."

"Now you're just trying to make me look bad."

Crowley definitely smiled this time, although it was still a bittersweet affair. 

"No," he said. "I just know what it feels like to fall."

"Oh, _Crowley_ ," said Aziraphale. He pressed a kiss to the demon's hand, which he would never do to a first edition. Not even Agnes Nutter. "You mean the world to me."

Crowley's smile turned snake-like, which was to say, very, very wide. "To the world, angel."

"To the _world_." 


End file.
